


we're the flawed, and we're the answer

by faaulkner



Series: what is hidden in the snow [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo (2011)
Genre: Crime Fighting, Cuddling, F/M, First Meeting, Hacking, Non-Graphic Violence, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:14:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25583440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faaulkner/pseuds/faaulkner
Summary: The BAU enlists the help of Lisbeth Salander while trying to find a killer of women. Will isn't sure what to make of her, but only at first.
Relationships: Will Graham/Lisbeth Salander
Series: what is hidden in the snow [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859323
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	we're the flawed, and we're the answer

**Author's Note:**

> This has been literal years in the making, starting with a series of [tumblr edits](https://annibalecter.tumblr.com/tagged/crossover-edit) and a since deleted 8tracks mix that made me fall in half crazed obsessed love with the idea of these two together. A million thanks to [HigherMagic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic) for letting me scream at her over a made up serial killer and also for providing some of the rhetoric that can be found in this fic. 
> 
> Title courtesy of The Waves Have Come by Chelsea Wolfe.

Jack manages to snag Will as he's trudging past his office on his way out at the end of the day.

"Will," he says, leaning out towards him with a hand on the doorway. "I'm glad I caught you. You're still good for meeting with everyone tomorrow morning, right?"

Will lets a gust of air escape his mouth, tries to make the sound seem weary rather than irked.

"Wouldn't miss it," he says. He's more than accustomed to the face Jack gives him at the dry response, like a harried father who'd expected the same old nonsense from his middle child but had still hoped for better.

It's not as if Will can blame him. Jack is of course talking about the task force meeting on the killer they’ve been hunting down for a month now, the pressure mounting ever since a fourth victim had been found just last week. So far the bodies, all women, have been discovered propped up outside upscale restaurants throughout the region, adorned with fine dresses and hairstyles. They looked almost glamorous, save for the fact that they'd been brutally beaten and their eyes had been gouged out post mortem. Will doesn’t have to search too far in the recesses of his mind to see their hollow stares.

It wasn’t until Tattle Crime coined the rather tasteful title of the Blind Date Butcher that shit really hit the fan, the rest of the press taking both the name and details of the murders and going wild with them. Combine that with the no doubt myriad of superiors probably breathing down Jack’s neck to catch the man, and it’s no wonder that he’s been pushing Will harder as a result.

"That's good. D'ya have a minute?" Jack asks.

Will adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder, looking wantingly in the direction he'd been heading. It’s not as if he’s anxious to join in the crawl of traffic on his way home, but if it means he’ll be going _home_ …

"C'mon," Jack says, sensing Will's overwhelmingly unsubtle reluctance. "There's someone here I'd like you to meet."

In all the time he’s known Jack, Will doesn’t think he's ever heard those words from him. Will isn’t the type that others fall over themselves to introduce others to, unless they’re just even more people wanting to pick his brain. He simply doesn’t conjure up that friendly urgency in others, and the fact that Jack is all of a sudden dying to play social matchmaker sets him on edge.

He only somewhat understands when he enters Jack's office and finds a woman sitting in front of his desk. She's slight, slouching down in her seat and resting a heel against a motorcycle helmet that sits at her feet. She almost appears like a shadow in shades of grey and black, the dark makeup around her eyes against her pale skin making her face look almost skull-like. She barely twitches when Will and Jack enter, and if Will didn’t know better he’d think she was unaware of their presence.

"Miss Salander, this is Will Graham. He's going to be consulting on the case with you. Will, Lisbeth Salander.”

Will is anticipating at the very least for her to acknowledge him, something that he will have to grit his teeth through as politely possible. Which is why it comes as such a surprise when Lisbeth Salander merely drifts her eyes in his general direction, and gives a minute nod of her head.

Introductions seemingly done and over with, Jack doesn’t allow the silence to stretch into full awkwardness.

“Miss Salander is here all the way from Stockholm," he explains, sitting at his desk. "But I’ve managed to reel her in with an impressive enough offer to help us out.” There’s a story behind that declaration, but Jack seems unwilling to let it show in his pleasant tone. “I’ve heard a few things about her particular skillset, and I know she’ll be a great asset to us.”

Will can tell that Lisbeth isn’t too pleased with being spoken of as if she’s not in the room, even if it’s in praise. She proves this by standing, scooping up her motorcycle helmet in a move that’s almost too graceful for a woman in a leather jacket.

“Flattery won’t be necessary. You’ve already got me on the case.”

Jack’s smile wanes just a bit, but he radiates determinedness to hang on to this strange good mood of his.

“And so I do. Remember, the team is meeting back here tomorrow morning at nine to go over what we know of the Butcher. That’s the whole team, Miss Salander.”

She has yet to look Will directly in the eyes. “I’ll be here. May I go now?”

“By all means. Safe trip to your motel.”

She all but glides from room, having received her dismissal. Will waits until the door has closed behind her to watch her retreat, though at that point there’s little left of her for him to see.

“Well she’s certainly interesting,” is what Will settles on. He doesn’t mention that he can still feel her presence next to him like a chill in the air. It doesn’t seem appropriate.

He’s startled from his watch by the sound of Jack snorting, and turns to find the man holding in more laughter. Jack only seems further amused by Will’s confused expression, an actual chuckle escaping him as his eyes dart to Lisbeth Salander’s vacated seat and back to him, once, twice. And all at once he shakes his head, a hand waving him off, as if giving up on explaining his good humor before he’s even begun. Laughing at a joke that Will is yet to hear the punchline to.

He has a pretty damn good idea of what it is, though.

…

Will doesn’t have to wait long to discover what Lisbeth Salander’s _particular_ _skillset_ is.

She’s perched at one end of the lab table, tapping away at a sleek laptop she’d brought and not doing much else. He can appreciate the silence, though, sitting in his own chair and rifling through photos from the last two crime scenes. Sometimes the others like to pepper in talk of mundane things among the blood and gore and anguish, and it disconcerts him.

“Did you look further into their activity on social media?” Lisbeth chirps, breaking said silence.

“Hmm?”

“The women.” She taps a nail on the picture he’s currently perusing, a close up of bruising around the last victim’s neck. It occurs to Will that not once has she referred to them as that: victims. “Their online presence. Whether or not they posted anything incriminating in the time leading up tho their murders."

“Someone went over it," Will says. “But other than a few desolate Facebooks and a cooking blog there was nothing on them. It's almost like he knew no one would be missing any daily posts from them."

"And how could he, if he did not know any of them beforehand?"

Will narrows his eyes at her, unsure where the hell this is going. “You think he did?”

Lisbeth is looking at him like she thinks he’s being obtuse. Most likely because she thinks he’s being obtuse.

"He knew they had limited presence online because he got to know them all. On dating websites."

He has to frown at that. It's a slightly ludicrous notion at first, but as he considers he has to admit it makes sense. All of the Butcher's women had been described by coworkers and scant family as introverted, almost reclusive. Lonely women willing to put everything on the line and try out something such as a dating site on a whim, pouring their hearts out to a kind stranger who took the time to get to know them. A kind stranger who targeted them because he knew they'd be less _accounted_ for. The wheels in Will's mind stutter and start up overtime.

“So he lured them in, planned a big romantic date with them, and then attacked. And we only didn't find any evidence of this on the sites because...'"

"Because he works on them," Lisbeth finishes for him. "He understands enough of them to erase their data as well as his own. He most likely uses his own VPN as well, on the off chance he was to be found out and eventually tracked."

 _Which he wasn't_ , is the unsaid finisher to her sentence. Will doesn’t even feel the sting of the barb, so preoccupied he is with wondering how they’d _all_ missed this. Lisbeth had unravelled the invisible knot in the string like it was _obvious_ to her.

"How, may I ask, did you even think to consider any of this?"

Lisbeth remains silent, but she does hold his gaze longer than she has since he's met her. Will is not that far behind this time around, thankfully. He lets out an amused bark of a laugh.

“So, when Jack called you a researcher, what he neglected to say was that you go just a bit more in depth than most.”

She only quirks a brow at the tease, turning away to fiddle with something on her laptop. “Just a bit,” she finally acquiesces.

“How did he even hear about you in the first place?” He can’t keep himself from asking.

“How did he hear about you?”

She's got him there.

Will looks backs to his pictures, a derisive chuckle slipping from his mouth. He drums his fingers over the snapshots of gore, choosing his next words with care.

“Sorry,” he finally says, though he can’t pinpoint exactly what he’s apologizing for. “Guess it’s weird to not be the only trinket in a bag of parlor tricks, huh?”

She doesn't respond, but her lingering silence doesn't feel unkind. Later, when she goes to refill her coffee, she takes his cup as well without even asking.

…

It’s not as much of a surprise as it should be when Will opens his front door one night to find her on the porch, glaring off into the distance as if she’s found herself there out of obligation. He lets her in and pours them both a drink, though she seems to have agreed to hers only to give him something to do with his restless hands, drinking it in small, perfunctory sips. They circle each other for some time, Will attempting some form of small talk about the case when Lisbeth seems to come to a decision.

Or rather, she's already made her decision and is now letting Will in on the process.

She all but crowds him agains the kitchen counter and kisses him. Her mouth is hard and demanding, and Will has to halt for one breath of a second before he reciprocates, hands falling to her hips. He feels almost lightheaded, drowning in this bruise-like ache that he’s been forced to ignore for weeks but suddenly has permission to prod and nudge at all he wants.

“You sure about this?” he manages after a few moments, breaking away only to mouth beneath her jaw.

He gets the distinct impression of her wanting to roll her eyes. She gives him a firm bite on the earlobe instead, which could very well be the same thing.

And so, he turns them around and attempts to scoop her into his arms to place her on the counter (a maneuver that he has _successfully_ pulled in the past, _thank you),_ but he only succeeds in getting her knee jabbed in his eye. Intentionally.

Stupid of him, really, to believe that she wouldn’t be anything but herself, even when it came to this.

One stilted, verging on awkward conversation and an ancient bag of peas from Will's freezer later, they pick up where they left off on Will’s bed. He’s not too eager to cause _complete_ optic damage tonight, so he allows her set to the pace, allows her to sit atop him and grind and lick and bite as she pleases. Lisbeth consumes him likes she's burning, like flames are licking at her flesh as she moves and it's all she can do to drag him into the rubble with her. Will is more than happy to go.

She falls to the bed beside him, after. Will tries to catch his breath, but with every gasp into his heaving chest he just seems to breathe in more of her. In any other case it would have felt stifling, another body and the mind attached to it intruding on his high, but he finds that he doesn't mind in the slightest now.

"Crawford mentioned that you had a lot of dogs," she says, after a moment. Will follows her gaze, noting as if for the first time his pack lounging in front of the fireplace, being very well behaved, all things considered. "He said he thought the number was about six or seven, but I just believed he was exaggerating. He wasn't, then."

Will isn't sure which to mull over first, the fact that he may have just traumatized his poor dogs, or the fact that Jack is dropping fun and interesting trivia on him in an apparent attempt to warm him up to Lisbeth Salander. He simply laughs into her hair instead.

…

They get their break only a few weeks after that. Lisbeth brings her findings to Jack, who makes some overtly proud expression that has Lisbeth looking visibly uncomfortable and Will feeling like he's in grade school all over again again.

It’s only a matter of time after that until they find the man. Lucas Harding, age forty-three, with several web engineering degrees and a resumé full of jobs at the selected dating sites under his belt. They waste little time in heading out to his address, the full SWAT team racing behind the squad car Will finds himself riding along in. Beverly sits diagonal to him in the passenger seat, deep concentration turning her profile to stone in the evening light.

Though he only notices when he isn’t preoccupied by Lisbeth by his side, somehow managing to tag along in the hubbub despite the fact that Will thinks some board somewhere would take issue with that. He glances at her in his peripheral vision when the others aren’t talking. And where Beverly is focused Lisbeth is something almost animal, kinetic, tension coiled in her joints where they occasionally slide close to him. Like she’s prepared to spring into attack given the first chance. Her fists sit clenched in her lap, and Will feels a sudden unprofessional pull to place his hand over one of them. He is certain she wouldn’t accept that here, though.

Once they pull up to Harding's house it's a flurry of hushed motion. A plainclothes officer steps up to his front door, flanked on one side by a trio of SWATs. He and Beverly arrange themselves off from a further distance, guns also at the ready. He can only spare one glance to Lisbeth, who seems to decide before anyone can chide her that standing by the car is her best course of action.

The officer rings the bell, and Harding answers after a moment of tense silence. There’s only a brief exchanging of words before all hell breaks loose. Harding slams his front door shut and the team springs into action, barreling through it only to find that he's already started fleeing. They just catch a glimpse of him escaping into his backyard, the sliding glass door rattling in its frame.

There’s a great crescendo of moving bodies and voices, not least of the latter being Jack’s booming baritone as he barks out orders. Amidst everything, Will seems to be the only one who notices Lisbeth slinking from her post. She's off like a shot, racing past them all and slipping into the fenced off area adjacent to Harding's house.

Will hasn’t even consciously decided to move before he starts following her.

He surges behind her at breakneck speed, finding them both in a small alley nestled in between the two rows of houses. Thinking back later, he'd marvel at how Lisbeth had known immediately what an entire FBI team had taken a crucial minute to realize. Because lo and behold, several yards ahead of her is Harding, his face red and panicked as he glances over his shoulder at them before hauling himself over a random fence.

"He's gotten into another yard! About four houses down!" Will calls behind him, to anyone who might be in earshot, the majority of the team still racing through Harding’s yard by the sound of it.

He feels _something_ spurring him on, some unspoken instinct telling him that he has to catch up. If asked about it later he wouldn't be able to explain that away, either, only knowing that he doesn't want Lisbeth _alone with the man for too long_. Though it isn’t solely for her sake.

He manages to wedge himself into the yard through a gap in the fence just as a sickening _crack_ sounds out. He stops short when he matches the sound to the scene.

Lucas Harding is splayed out upon the green, green grass, surrounded almost comically by children's toys that are strewn about the yard. His eyes are glassy, almost dumbfounded, as a streak of crimson slowly oozes its way from a wound on his head. There's matching red dripping from the tip of the baseball bat in Lisbeth Salander's grip. She looks down upon him, panting, expression almost serene considering what she's just done. She looks as if she's just finished a marathon. She looks satisfied.

Finally, she meet's Will's eyes, wordlessly challenging him to take her victory from her. Will can hear the footfalls and commotion of the others behind him, and he knows he doesn't have much time. So he merely holds her gaze, unflinching, unafraid. Accepting.

And perhaps he's only being fanciful, but he thinks he sees her almost smile just as they rip the bat from her hands.

***

After, he leans on the back of the car, his very bones aching from more than just his brief sprint today. He doesn’t try to hide the way he watches the EMTs fussing with Lisbeth in the back of an open ambulance a distance away. One of them had given her a shock blanket a few minutes ago and she is yet to use it, merely wadding it up in her lap much to the EMT’s chagrin.

Jack approaches him, ambling and methodical in that way of his. They say nothing at first, merely watching the scene taking place around them, the people milling in and out of Harding’s house in organized chaos, the scattered reds and blues of the police cruisers casting it all in a ghastly violet glow.

Will breaks the silence. “You were trying to set us up, or something. Some sort of misanthropic crime-fighting duo. That’s why you were laughing that day in your office.”

Jack gives a shrug. “I wasn’t trying to play love doctor, if that’s what you’re saying. But.”

He juts his chin at their surroundings, as if Will can’t already see.

“I’m not disappointed with the results, either way. We caught him.”

Will nods, because that’s all he can do, really. He manages to catch Lisbeth’s eye amongst the people idling about her. They don’t look away from each other until long after Will speaks.

“Yeah,” he agrees, voice grim. “We caught him.”

…

"Did you try looking me up, at any point when we first met?”

He's got his head cradled on her bare stomach, a hand spread out on the flesh where her thigh meets her hip. It's not often that she allows him to touch her so freely and affectionately like this, at least unprompted, and he revels in his chance to do so now.

"You don't just _look_ anyone _up_ ," is her response, indulging for all that it is biting.

Wills huffs a small laugh, turns to press his face into her warmth, breathing her in. Doesn’t speak again for a full minute.

"You know what I mean."

Lisbeth had lit up a cigarette after they'd finished, and up until now she's been fully occupied with it. But now she snakes a hand down into his curls, fingers combing through them as if unsure of their welcome. Will wants to tell her that they're always welcome.

"I knew that as a policeman you were stabbed, by a drug addict during a routine patrol,” she says, as if reciting from memory. "I knew that later you were deemed to be too mentally unstable for the FBI. I knew that you were born in New Orleans, to a woman named Mary and a man also named William. Your father is still alive, though you don’t speak to him, and your mother died from ovarian cancer in 2002.”

Will has to crane his head to look up at her then, forcing her hand to almost yank away from their ministrations.

"You could have found out almost all of that just from asking around," he reasons.

Her expression is ambivalent. "Yes, but I didn't have to ask around to find it."

Will continues gazing up at her, and he doesn’t know what is showing on his face. Isn’t sure he wants to know.

"I never knew that," is what he finally says.

"Which part? The one where you got stabbed?"

Will laughs again, but the sound is more awestruck than amused.

"No. I didn’t know my mother was dead.”

Lisbeth blinks. Her lips purse. It’s like watching an animatronic attempt to make a certain facial expression, and fail.

“But you didn’t know her,” she says. Her tone remains the same, but her touch has gentled, tucking some overlong hair behind his ear in a gesture that’s overwhelmingly tender.

“No, I didn’t,” Will says. He settles back into her stomach, just short of nuzzling her. Now that the knowledge has been presented to him he’s able to hold it close, inspecting it, before setting it free once more. He only feels a small pang at letting it go. “But I guess you knew that, huh?”

“I didn’t. But I was able to guess.”

Will smiles ruefully, distracting himself with running a finger along the ink that spans the side of her pale thigh. “Do I get to find out your ugly secrets too, then?” he asks after a spell.

He can feel her tense against his cheek. “You know enough.”

It doesn’t feel like an admonishment, a warning, for all that in some part probably is. Will thinks of her when she’s on her laptop, glaring it into submission; when she’s curled into him in the early dawn hours, looking more vulnerable in sleep than he’ll ever see her when awake. He thinks of her standing over Lucas Harding’s prone body like something vicious and untamed.

He may not know everything, but perhaps she’s right. He knows just enough, for now.

…

Will is gripping his coffee a bit tighter than necessary when he enters his classroom the next Monday, and he has to tell himself that his shitty mood is just a reflection of the day. Never mind that he’s gotten used to the sound of a low, clipped voice in his ear, to seemingly identical black articles of clothing strewn about his house, and is now struggling to remember what he did _before_ he was used to it now that it’s gone. Never mind any of that.

His inner bemoaning stops short, though, at the sight of a familiar figure sitting at his desk.

“You’re still here,” he says, rather astutely.

Lisbeth looks up at him, and it’s only through sheer exposure to her that Will can now see the brightness in her eyes, the cheeky curve just teasing at her mouth. She’s gone without the black around her eyes today, and Will wants to tell her that she looks lovely. But then again, she always looks lovely.

“I am still here,” she agrees, fingers drumming against her folded arms.

“The Butcher’s done for. You more or less gift wrapped him for us. Don’t you wanna escape before Jack can reel you in to any other cases?”

She doesn’t respond at first, lips pursing in a rare indicator of shyness.

“I have nothing in Sweden demanding me back just yet. And Jack Crawford is not the worst man I have had to answer to.”

Will makes himself nod, forcing his gaze down. There are questions he wants to ask, some less rational than others, but he keeps them bottled up.

“And there are other things. Other reasons for me to stay here.”

He looks back up at her, and _oh_. He has to fight not to grin like some overjoyed high schooler. Though he’s only somewhat successful. A wide range of actions present themselves to him, from pressing her for more information to leaning across the desk and kissing her, right in his own damn classroom. Will does none of them, only approaches the desk to place his coffee down.

“Is it Katz?” he snarks weakly. “It’s Katz, isn’t it? I saw how well you two were getting along at Harding’s house.”

A real, honest smile blooms on her face, and of course that is when the first of his students begin to mill in. A few take note of their oh so reserved instructor speaking softly to the goth chick staking claim of his chair, but Will pays them little mind.

“Are you staying?” he asks, figuring he’s allowed to. “I’m sure you could find an extra seat.”

Lisbeth shakes her head as she stands, and Will nods again. It’s probably a good thing, he thinks. He’s not sure he’d be able to concentrate on lecturing at all with her eyes boring into him.

“But I will see you later,” she promises, and before he can say anything more she swipes his coffee, brushing past him as she takes her first sip.

“I’m pretty sure that belongs to someone, you know.” His words have no venom in them at all.

“I know,” Lisbeth says. “I don’t think he will mind.”

With that she turns, cutting through the bustling crowd, a grey smudge in a sea of navy blue.

This time, Will watches her leave until she disappears from view.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [mix of my own](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6pnExOKpu56w5FkYnUXsFv?si=AoxRD-1LR3KWZuJCws9nmw) for these two, because what is self restraint.


End file.
